


The Block

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Original work - Freeform, vent - Freeform, writers block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26302777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A story about writing.
Kudos: 2





	The Block

The room was filled with sharp, golden light. Long shadows stretched across the soft carpeted floor, the desert sun beating mercilessly through the western windows.

From the other room, the TV chattered in muffled tones, drowned out by the whining fan at the door and afternoon fuzz that permeated the house.

A cup of tea sat, forgotten, atop a worn, duct-taped notebook, growing steadily more lukewarm as the seconds ticked by.

The desk lamp flickered a bit, it’s light (and that of the faery lights string about the rest of the room) an unnecessary comfort at this sun-bathed hour.

A tall girl sits alone at the desk, the afternoon glow thrown across her face to make blue eyes more green. Her legs are crossed neatly across her chair, balancing her a few feet off the ground. 

Music drifts lazily through her battered earbuds, and she’s careful not to twist the wires as her fingers lightly tap out the beat on the side of her keyboard.

A cursor blinks expectantly up at her from the screen, patiently awaiting the words that seem to have escaped her. 

In the dark chill of night, there had been plenty of ideas racing through her mind. Like sparklers, they burned brightly all through her dreams, yet in the morning, they vanished; mere memories, small and insignificant after being burned out.

The song ends. Passes to the next one.  
Her lips soundlessly form the first few lines, wordlessly singing along to yet another overplayed track on the same playlist.

Once upon a time, these melodies were the soundtrack to her creativity.

Presently, however, they only serve as one more trail for her mind to stray down, further and further from the worlds she had so excitedly promised to bring into reality.

With a sigh, she takes a sip of the only slightly warmed tea, ignoring how uncomfortable heat spread through her limbs, sweat trickling down the back of her neck.

The fan buzzed louder, providing no aid.

Her dog barked down the hall, shushed by a sibling too enraptured with their show to listen to her whining.

The cursor continued to blink.

Waiting.

Waiting.

waiting

waitnig 

wait|

She turns away from the screen, picking up her phone carefully so the frayed wires don’t pause the music.

Checking inboxes, Youtube, Hangouts; all for the billionth times today.

Nothing.

Of course not.

No new story, no new comments.

And she had told them not to text:

She’s writing. She’s focusing. She really means it this time. 

No, don’t let her come back till she’s written.

Yeah, two hours.  
Check the doc.

No one ever checks the doc.

Not unless she tells them to, at least.

Why should they? 

They don’t care. Don’t understand the story. Don’t understand why it matters to her.

Just that it must matter. She always works on it.

If they checked they would know it wasn’t getting far.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Waiting.  
Waiting.  
Waiting.

She puts the phone down, but the broken wires twist and skip the song. 

Now there’s an add.  
No she won’t buy premium.  
Please play the music.  
Let her escape again.

She shifts positions, dropping one foot to the floor as she waits.  
There’s no thinking with the regular talk in her ear.

She picks up her cup and drains the cold, oversteeped tea in a few gulps, setting the cup aside and reaching for her journal.

The laptop screen goes dimmer, the cursor still blinking as she sets the book on top of the keys.

Two composition notebooks; taped together for more writing space.  
She promised herself to fill them both, but the first part is barely full yet.

Find the outline. That will help.  
It was before the sketch page; after the angst for that one crackfic.

Here.

She bites her lip, scanning the neat slanted lines of cursive only to find... nothing.

That plot point was scrapped. Cross it out.  
She grabs a random Copiic lying next to her and drags the brush across her pencil lines, watching the brown ink bleed through the thin paper.

And that story beat was finished two days ago; she wrote it early without thinking.

After scanning the page, she realised she was two chapters ahead of the last physical notes.

The only things left on the page was the final goal, and a quick note that says “work on the cat”... whatever that means.

She’s flying blind. What’s the point of an outline anyway? It will never be up to date with all the things in her head.

Because if she could write a plan, it would already have every beat of the story.

That is if she knew every beat of the story.

And if she could write that on the page, then maybe the cursor wouldn’t be blinking at her right now.

Oh. 

Wait.

Never mind.

The laptop fell asleep.

She closed the notebook with a sigh, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. 

Hold the start button. 

The Dell logo taunts her as the screen turns dark blue for a moment.

Backlit keys slowly glow back to life, inviting her to do something.

The cursor is back.

Blink. Blink.  
Wait.

wait.

_Last edit was 25 minutes ago_

She stares at it for a moment, the next song starting up with distracting drumbeats. She loves that song, but it’s not the time.

She closes the tab.

Cursed spider pigs stare at her form the desktop.  
They were funny a while ago; now it’s just the wallpaper of shame.

Reopen Google. 

Docs is bookmarked. 

Because she’s supposed to be a writer. 

She’s writing... but not really.

She doesn’t look at the story as she creates a new document. 

Fingers poised, a stupid idea flutters in the back of her mind.  
Not what she’s supposed to be working on right now.

And the cursor, still ever patient in it’s blinking. 

Waiting.

Screw it.

She closed the laptop, with its spider pigs and digital words and blue light and unfinished stories.

The fog in her chest gets heavier, but she picks up the notebook anyway, grabbing a neon orange pencil and tucking them both under her arm.

She stands, reaching for the ladder that leads to the loft. No more desks.

She climbs up, collapsing into the sea of grey fabric and light pillows. 

She lays down, taking a deep breath as she flips to a blank page. 

Forget what she’s supposed to do.

Or be.

Or create.

She places the pencil to the page and starts to create a new world. 

Nothing as beautiful and exciting and scary as the one waiting on her computer.

Something as bleak and hot and golden washed as the one she’s laying in.

Maybe one day it will cure the Block.

**Author's Note:**

> That got very meta, didn’t it? 
> 
> I’m not usually one to vent, but I figured a little bit of irl perspective would be a cool addition to my handful of works.
> 
> If you were ever wondering what happens when I don’t post for a couple days, it’s this.  
> Not because I’m working out brilliant schemes, I just can’t bring myself to physically type what’s in my head XD
> 
> Um. What else? 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Don’t forget to be awesome :)
> 
> <3 ST
> 
> Ps: I really do mean spider pigs; they scare me into being productive XD https://tinyurl.com/yyb7vppc


End file.
